


Windows, Curfews, and Other Broken Things

by adversarya



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crack, Everyone is grounded, F/M, Gen, I Don't Even Know, No windows were harmed in the making of this fic, this includes Ned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-20 05:51:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2417339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adversarya/pseuds/adversarya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, six times Catelyn grounds someone (and one time Ned does).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Windows, Curfews, and Other Broken Things

**Author's Note:**

> This is crack. That is it, and that is all.

_ one _

Catelyn looks up from the cutting board just in time to see her kitchen window meet its end at the hand of a football. The shards fall into the sink and scatter across the hardwood floors and _oh, this will be a joy to clean_ and she looks out where there was once a window to the half dozen children standing as still and silent as she had ever seen.

“Who did this?” Catelyn does not shout. Instead she goes straight to quiet but deadly. 

Five terrified index fingers point in Theon Greyjoy’s direction. 

“Theon, you’re grounded.”

The sixteen-year-old splutters like a boy half his age. 

“But I don’t even _live_ here!” he insists, and Catelyn sadly realizes he has a point. She turns to Theon’s best friend, her eldest son, instead. 

“Robb, you’re grounded on Theon’s behalf,” she tells him before turning back to Theon. “And you, Mr. Greyjoy, are mowing our lawn until you graduate. Every other week, no exceptions. Understood?” 

Theon nods. He does not know whether she is referring to high school or college or something else entirely, but he does know that now is not the time to ask. He is not stupid enough to ask whether or not he will be paid. 

 

_(two)_

Ned is reading some finance reports to help himself fall asleep when Catelyn begins murmuring in her sleep. His wife does not talk in her sleep, not really, but she makes sounds that occasionally (rarely) form words. Ned likes to think of it as snoring, but with vowels and consonants. Not that he is in a position to say anything, because he snores loud enough to wake the dead—and his children, who never let him forget it. Still, Ned pokes his wife with the hand not holding the finance report. 

“Cat,” he says, and she swats his hand away, but continues mumbling. Ned pokes her again. His wife opens her eyes, but he can see that they are still clouded over with sleep. 

“You’re grounded,” she says, not looking at him or anywhere in particular. 

“Cat,” Ned chuckles. 

“Your room, now!” She is using her Loud Voice, which threatens the possible use of her much scarier Quiet Voice if he should be so silly as to argue. 

“Cat—“

“No arguments!”

More than mildly amused and slightly concerned, Ned leaves the room, unsure of what else to do. Seemingly satisfied, his wife rolls over in her sleep and resumes her mumbling. 

Ned decides to slum it in the guest room for the night for his own safety, and makes up his mind to call Jory in the morning, see if maybe he and Melinda could take the kids for a weekend. 

Cat clearly needs a vacation (and hey, he wouldn’t mind one either). 

 

_(three)_

“Robb, you’re grounded.”

“I’m nineteen, mother. I don’t even live here any more!”

“I said _go to your room_!”

“What room?! You turned my old bedroom into a craft room!”

“Then figure something out!”

 

_(four)_

“Where have you been?” Catelyn demands. Her voice is icier than a glacier and leaves no room for argument. Go directly to Jail, do not pass Go, do not collect $200. 

“With Gendry,” Arya answers, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

Catelyn gives her daughter a look that would make a grown man cry (and it had—just ask the car salesman that sold her the family minivan). But Arya is not a grown man, Arya is Arya, and being Arya she doesn’t even blink, only waltz right past her mother to the fridge where she pulls out the OJ and proceeds to drink straight from the carton, one of Catelyn’s pet peeves. If Bran were there, he would warn his sister that she was tap-dancing on a land mine, as Bran is the Smart One of the Stark brood. But, being the Smart One, Bran had hightailed it to the nearest bomb shelter (read: his bedroom) the moment he heard Gendry’s car pulling into the driveway. 

Catelyn looks stonily at her daughter, her face flushed with anger, ready to explode (or possibly implode? It could go either way, but neither ends well for Arya), for long enough that even Arya with her seeming inability to pick up social cues notices. 

Arya the cap back on the carton and pops it back in the fridge (she had left the refrigerator door open the whole time—another one of Catelyn’s pet peeves). 

“I said I’d be back by eleven, and it’s… just gone half-past ten,” Arya says, checking her watch. “I don’t see what the problem is.”

“You said you’d be back by eleven on Friday,” Catelyn hisses. “It’s _Saturday._ ”

Even Arya can’t think of a good excuse for that. 

 

_(five)_

“You can’t prove anything,” Bran complains as Catelyn all but drags him to his room. 

“I’m your mother, Brandon, I don’t need to prove anything,” Catelyn tells him, unamused. 

“But it’s not fair!”

Catelyn gives him the look his siblings sometimes call “The Lone Brow of Doom”, a fearsome sight, and Bran cannot help but gulp.

“You seem to have mistaken this house for a democracy,” Catelyn says flatly. “Also, you’re on dish duty for the rest of the week—and _no,_ you may not use the dishwasher.” 

Brandon sighs, but nods. He is the Smart One, after all. 

 

_(six)_

Rickon tries to sneak in the back door but Catelyn has a sixth sense for these things and is already waiting for him  She raised Rickon (and Arya), so it was an all but necessary skill. This sixth sense also draws her attention to a suspicious bandage peeking out from underneath his shirt. 

“Rickon Edwyle Stark!”

He freezes but says nothing, as if she might forget about him if he remained still and ignored her long enough, like a wasp. 

It does not work. 

“Where were you and what is _that_?” Catelyn demands to know, though she already has an idea. There had not been a single grey hair on her head before her children entered their teenage years, and Cat is certain this is not a coincidence. Her only consolation is that Ned is greying faster than she is. 

Rickon tries to play dumb but quickly realizes the futility, and admits that _yes, mom, it is a tattoo._

Catelyn tells him that he is grounded indefinitely, quite possibly for the rest of his natural born life. 

In response Rickon only snorts and tells her that he’s been grounded since the spring of 2012 (but he goes straight to his room nonetheless). 

Catelyn wonders if it is possible for one to _feel_ one’s hair turning grey. 

 

 

_(plus one)_

Ned rubs his temples, hoping that if he wished hard enough the whole situation would just go away. It does not work, leaving Ned with no other option but to deal with the situation. Oh well. 

Seventeen-year-old Sansa sits in one of the armchairs facing his desk, twiddling her thumbs. She had started interning in the marketing department last June, and so far it had been going extremely well. 

Until today, that is.

Ned takes a seat in his imposing chair at his imposing mahogany desk in his imposingly large office and tries to look imposing. 

It does not work. 

(Ned wonders if that will be a theme today.)

If anything, his daughter looks bored. 

“Robert Baratheon called,” he tells her, unable to think of any other way to begin. 

“You’re his chief administrative officer. He always calls,” Sansa responds bluntly, and Ned wants to cry. Sansa has always been the most respectful and well-behaved of his brood. He can’t deal with another Arya, or, gods forbid, Rickon. He just can’t. 

“He called from the _hospital_ ,” Ned clarified, and Sansa has the grace to look apologetic. “I know Joffrey can be…” 

He tries to think of a word to politely describe Robert’s eldest son but draws a blank, and Ned concludes that the English language has failed him today. 

“…well, Joffrey,” he finishes lamely, “but you _broke_ his nose.” 

“Really?” Sansa gasps, sounding mildly concerned but mostly pleased with herself. 

Ned sighs. 

“Really.” 

“Well that’s unfortunate,” Sansa laments, but her eyes twinkle with amusement and Ned decides he can’t even pretend to be angry any more. 

“Indeed,” Ned says, before sighing again. “You are my daughter, Sansa, but don’t think for a moment that gets you off the hook.” 

For the first time, Sansa looks truly concerned.

“I’m not firing you, don’t worry,” Ned says, because he knows his daughter all too well. Sure enough, the concern in Sansa’s expression dissipates. 

Sansa opens her mouth to say something but Ned cuts her off. 

“ _However,_ you will be working extra shifts—”

“Okay,” she agrees, but Ned is not finished.

“—for Tyrion Lannister, down in Records. He is completely renovating the filing system and is in desperate need of assistance.” 

Sansa is dismayed.   
  
“Really?” she asks, entirely aware of how pitiful she sounds but past the point of caring. 

“Really,” Ned confirms. 

Sansa says nothing for a while, too caught up in her own misery. 

“Well that’s unfortunate,” she finally concludes, and Ned has to suppress a smile. 

Sansa gathers her belongings and makes to leave. 

“Oh, and Sansa?” Ned calls his daughter back, remembering something. 

“Yes?”

“You’re grounded.”

“That’s mom’s line,” Sansa tells him, irritated but (thankfully) resigned to her fate. 

“I’m sure she won’t mind me borrowing it for an afternoon.” 

Sansa sighs, but says nothing. She gathers her belongings and leaves, shutting the door behind her.  

Ned waits until he can no longer hear her footsteps before starting to chuckle, full of fatherly pride. 

. . . . . . . . . . . 

At the end of the day Sansa goes straight home and up to her room, as per the rules of grounding, and finds the Armani handbag that she had been begging for for _ages_ waiting for her on her bed. She smiles and flops onto her bed, grabbing her brand-new handbag and burying her face in the soft red leather. 

Two-hundred hours of filing suddenly seems more bearable. 

(And punching Joff in the face was totally worth it, even without the handbag.)

(But handbags are good, too.)

**Author's Note:**

> PSA: "That's unfortunate" is my go-to line in real life, and I believe it is vastly underutilized.


End file.
